


Puppy #1

by Avid Moron (Nevermore9)



Category: PAW Patrol
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Crime, Fluff, Gore, M/M, Murder, Oneshot, Police Procedural, Serial Killers, Sleep Deprivation, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 07:42:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7792837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nevermore9/pseuds/Avid%20Moron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chase is on the case, to hunt a killer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Puppy #1

Approaching Chase was like walking into a pressure cooker. Hot chills crept over Marshall's damp coat, polka-dotted with grimey patches, accumulated from nights spent with Chase. The Dalmatian sat, dog-tired, beside his brooding police pup partner, assigned to him by Ryder, apparently. Right there was the equivalent of stopping to take a breath in a burning building. The more you breathed, the more smoke you inhaled, so the closer you came to death by asphyxiation. Of course Chase seemed to be a detective machine, feeding off the black smoke of casework with the unsatiable hunger of an exhaustion vampire.  
"I'd appreciate it if you'd bring Rocky in for further questioning," Chase huffed. When the German Shepherd blinked, Marshall braced himself, in case this was the time Chase actually passed out. It hadn't happened yet, but one could never be too careful.  
"I already spoke to Rocky today. Didn't you read my report?"  
Eyes rolled, Chase grumbled something to the line of photographs on his desk. They merely stared back at him with a murderer's footprint, and a set of drag marks in the morning grass. He smacked his lips together, tasting the stale crust of coffee. "I want to speak with him. That's the end of it." The police pup's head sank over to the side of his shoulder, like a tired old man resting on the couch, before bolting back up with a start. For the first time since the previous night, Chase turned face to face with Marshall. "Please, have him in by this evening."  
Marshall sighed blatantly in front of his lead investigator. Chase frowned at that, but the fire pup didn't care enough to show any signs of apology. There was nothing to be said besides "yes, Sir." Then thirty minutes passed.  
The dial clock hummed on the cusp of twelve fifty-nine, after noon. The lookout had been emptied of media traffic, and Zuma found himself getting nervous as the elevator came nearer to its destination. On the other hand, Rocky, who watched the floor numbers change with a bored interest, was quite calm. Despite being assured elseways, Rocky was aware of his spot on the Paw Patrol's suspect list. However, he refused to let the fact phase him. A ding from the elevator hit Zuma's pulse with the blunt force of a sledgehammer.  
"I'm sure you've heard of the Night Prowler," Chase began once Rocky had been settled across from him and Marshall. The gray mutt absently watched Zuma behind the glass of the inaptly named "witness room", how the chocolate Lab paced outside in the main hall, like a jaguar locked within a cage. Clearing his throat, Chase snapped his interviewee back to his black circled gaze. "What's the extent of your knowledge on the subject?"  
Rocky clicked his tongue thoughtfully. "Just what I read in the papers. But, I stopped following the recent, uh- killings. It's just terrible. Too depressing for me," he said. His amber peepers gave Marshall a glazed stare. "I explained this all to the other officer, Ryder. The blood in my truck was stage blood. I used it this previous Halloween." The two bewildered mugs, plastered with astonishment, gaping at Rocky on the opposite side of the table, caught him off-guard.  
"What?" Marshall said.  
"Ryder asked about some blood. I guess one of the other pups saw the fake blood in the back of my truck and called it in." Rocky scratched the top of his left paw. He blinked twice, and again, moving his eyes to Chase's navy blue uniform. The cold nip in the atmosphere bothered the mutt. The German Shepherd furrowed his brow.  
Tapping a single nail against the rim of his desk, Chase consulted a handwritten file. The police pup took pauses to glance back towards Rocky in between scanning the paper. He noted the dog's uncommon placidity. "A witness claims that you bragged to him about eating chicken. You said 'it tastes so good, especially after its dead,'" Chase flipped a page, "you said 'when its raw, that's when its best. It's so fun to watch their heads go clean off. The blood tastes good too.'"  
"That is false," Rocky retorted. Pain seemed to seep under the shells of his words, slowly bubbling to the surface. He was losing his cool to the clutches of fervored anxiety.  
"So you've never eaten meat?" Chase asked.  
Simmering a scowl on his face, Rocky recalled a puppy-hood memory. "Mr. Porter tried to make me, when I was on the streets. But I'm a vegetarian."  
"The witness also claims you made statements about killing woodland critters," Chase went on. Immediately his interest was aroused when he saw the dark glint in Rocky's lowered eyes. The mixed breed choked on his sentence until he managed to spit it out, shakily.  
"I- would never...say something so-- horrible!"  
"O.K.," Chase said.  
Rocky puffed angrily. In as quick of an instant as a cheetah would travel past a stagnant tree, he regained ahold of himself. Gently, he focused on Marshall with a deadpan expression. "May I go home now?"  
"You may," Marshall cut in, paying careful attention to Chase's unwavering sternness. The police dog remained quiet. Then an hour passed.  
"You still sure that was a good idea?" Marshall asked a dispondent puppy. The Dalmatian was lying on his stomach, situated upon a makeshift dog bed, fashioned from an exceptionally large pillow. Between his spotted paws was History's Worst Serial Killers: A Study Of Wolves Among Sheep. At intervals, Marshall would read a page or two, chat up Chase, then skim another page. So far he'd learned the details of Jack the Ripper's Whitechapel spree, cringed at Ed Gein's morbid deeds, and currently was delving into the Zodiac's cryptic letters.  
Chase chewed the bits and pieces of bland snack food in his powerful jaws. "All I know is that this doughnut is aweful, and I want Rocky looked into, A.S.A.P., which means a stakeout."  
"That's a bagel your eating, Dear," Marshall replied.  
Brushing the rest of his bagel into the wastebin, Chase looked around the lookout office with the hope that a vision outlining the exact method of how to solve this case would flash before him like he was a psychic. Holding for a few seconds, Chase deemed it a failure, muttered something about doughnuts, sighed, and turned to Marshall. His white and black friend was a portrait of bliss on the floor. "I could go for a steaming bowl of Marshall surprise right about now," the pup thought aloud. He brought himself down to Marshall's level, just so he could nuzzle the fur of his neck.  
Marshall forgot the book and his research. Instead, he rolled onto his side, letting Chase stretch out alongside him, tail wagging. Their paws overlapped each other's while the police pup reposed his chin above Marshall's softly thumping heart. "You should go for some sleep," the fire dog said in a singsong.  
"Stakeout with me," Chase insisted, his eyelashes batting. With each blink they grew heavier.  
"Not tonight."  
"Stakeout with me," Chase mumbled, his eyelids now sweetly closed.  
Affectionately, Marshall reclined his head against Chase's muscular frame. He felt eternally peaceful, secure in his friend's tight embrace. He whispered a sweet nothing, which would later appear in Chase's dreams of candy fields, and said "goodnight."

The Night Prowler shifted through tall evening grass. Using the thick trunk of an oak, they hid themselves away in the blackness, peeking towards a lone bunny, crouched dopily on the outskirts of the brush and the trees. Blood raced through the Prowler's veins, injecting them with a heroin overdose of adrenaline. The hunt had begun. The kill was so close, so close that the Prowler could've nearly died themselves. It was delightful.  
Judy the rabbit perked up at the rustle of an oncoming force. Her ears tuned in to the airs of the night, capturing a cricket's lonesome chirp, a vole's heartbroken dig beneath the surface of dirt, and the sudden rupture of a pup's gruff tone. Thumping her foot, Judy stuck her nose out to the pup in the shadows. She could feel the vibrations playing over the earth, but this pup's paw steps were light, like a fox emerging from his hidey-hole. Her nose twitched at a breeze.  
"You alright out here?" The pup said, holding onto the ends of his delicate words. He was as rigid as a stone gargoyle, yet concern laced his voice. Judy expected the pup to reach out towards her. He didn't.  
"Yes," the bunny replied. Her cotton tail wiggled against a tuft of crabgrass.  
Compacting himself into a lower position, the pup shivered, acting as though the season of Winter had sprang up behind him. A "brr" noise came from him. He tried stalking closer to the bunny of his closely kept objective. "Someone bad is walking around here," the silhouette said. "Or so I've heard. Don't you read the papers?"  
This unnerved Judy, more than having the news broken to you that your bed for the night has been substituted with a porcupine's back. She was creeped out, but still didn't want to excuse herself from the presence of this pup yet, for the sake of politeness. "I was just leaving. My son's wanting me to bake a carrot cake. He'll be turning seven in a couple months."  
"How charming." The cardboard cutout, spray painted black, pup said this like it was an answer to a trivia question on a gameshow. "I love carrot cake. I really do."   
Judy only nodded to herself, not thinking that the pup could see her very clearly in the shade of a swaying tree limb overhead. As a bunny, she wrung her paws together, a tick she did whenever she was a little scared. A heated lick roused Judy's flight instincts. She was sure the shadow opposite her made a lip smacking sound. To her expansive ears there was a definite sound hanging on the notes between the wind, like a slimy tongue tracing whiskered chops, but Judy couldn't be sure if it came from the pup or not. She didn't want to say anything, and risk rudeness.  
Inching towards his quarry, on tiptoes, going unnoticed by Judy, the Prowler slowly showed a sliver of his teeth. "I think I'll treat myself, after I kill you," he said. "I have a major sweet tooth."  
Broken inside, Judy shut down after that brain chilling assertion. The only image running with the gears of her mind was the shining, happy-go-lucky grin of her beautiful son. When the first canine punctured the flesh encasing her rib, blood spurted, she went limp. Was this what surrender was?  
Ecstatic with primal vigor, the Prowler rended his prey's muscles and tendons. A shoulder joint crunched under the pressure from his back row chompers. He shook the rabbit in his jaws like a chewtoy, and marveled at how flimsily her body unraveled. As easy as a doll, shreds of fur, lumps of skin, flew throughout the bleeding crimson bunches of crabgrass. Hair scattered with flesh, covering a short range around the Prowler. It was a semicircle of shredded meat. That's all it was, he liked think, too. Meat.  
Dropping his bunny, the pup reinstated his pearly whites around a bruised skull, set atop a dislocated neck. He felt a faint breathing tickle the back of his throat, which made him spread a guilty smile. The rabbit was clinging to life still, for some curious reason. Precious, could almost be used to describe the phenomenon, but slaves weren't quite fitting of such a description. Applying his bite, the Prowler, unhurriedly, destroyed his plaything's head. Thrusting centimeter after meticulous centimeter of drool covered tooth within a pulsating sheath, he savored the erotic sensations of everything. The process gave him a hard-on, until an eyelid blinked against the roof of his mouth, which made him giggle. Here, he pierced both of his canines past the gray matter of Judy's brain, and withdrew. He was done with it. It was an it, he told himself. That steadied his panting, made him feel better.

Zuma stared ruefully at the empty entrance to his dog house. The arching streaks of darkness, dancing over his heavily set frown and across the metal walls surrounding him like shadow puppets, were taunting. A haunting moon, its full bottom visible from Zuma's lying position, mocked him too. The chocolate Lab was betrayed, and his eyes fluttered with the intent to fall asleep in agony, but the wind changed, heralding the scent of dusty recycled junk.  
"I thought you wouldn't show," Zuma said, a bitterness and a desperate sadness blended within his low voice.  
Rocky stealthily squeezed himself inside Zuma's bright orange pup house. Nudging his friend's cheek with his damp nose, he whispered "I'm here."  
The chocolate Lab purred at the brush of Rocky's puffy gray fur along his ribcage. He tipped over on his side as the mixed breed plopped his body beside him, giving a sharp nibble to his ear. Electricity was volting through every tiny hair on Zuma's hide. A girthy, bristled tongue extended to taste Zuma's earthy smell, yet it found a wide patch of sour moisture. Rocky recoiled, feeling a dampness stick to his cheek like a disgusting brand of tape.  
"You're soaking wet."  
Grousing, Zuma erected himself. He shook his droopy ears, splattering a drizzle of wet onto his mutt of a friend. "Did you only come here to complain about me?"  
Rocky whined. "I would prefer a dry pup. I've had more than my share of water for one day."  
"Are you staying?" Zuma said, his bottom quivering in the darkness, with the fright of a child.  
Bit by bit, Rocky clandestinely crept along Zuma's flank. He nosed the Lab's stirring tail, and whiffed a tangible feeling of want, eminating in puffs of steam from Zuma's groin. Rocky rested his head atop Zuma's rear. "I'll stay," he said, more to himself.   
Zuma sniffled. "You know, I'm hung up on you, Dude."  
The world went utterly black, and disappeared when Zuma shut his eyes. He hunched over, in a drowsy state of euphoria. Feeling Rocky slide into him from behind was the climax of an all night high. The two pups measured the other's pulse. Zuma, especially, was thrilled to lie still, acting as a lifesized doll for his best friend to manipulate as he saw fit. He, Zuma liked to think, was a chewtoy right now. A guilty smile snaked onto his expression.  
Moving into his powerless Labradore, Rocky lightly instated his pearly whites over the hump of Zuma's back. He felt a ring of muscle clasp steadfastly around his erection, which left him with bated breath. The Lab grit his teeth, wheezing faintly. Saintly was too low a word to describe the sensation of Zuma to Rocky. Language far filthier was preferred by the mixed breed. Appyling his bite, Rocky tenderly held onto his pup. Inhaling the sweaty odors and intoxicating perfumes at the base of Zuma's fur, Rocky pushed his tongue from his mouth, to lick those flavors. He savored the eroticism of the moment. A pushback of Zuma's wriggly butt coaxed a schoolgirl giggle from the mutt. Then, he speared his erection into the acorn sized gland buried within the plushy cage of his Lab's anus, and ejactulated. Zuma was Zuma, Rocky told himself. That frenzied his panting, flooded his chest with air, made his heart feel good.  
"I'd never kill you, Zuma. Not even in my dreams."  
Kneading his muzzle into the scruff of Rocky's chest, the Night Prowler was where he knew he belonged. "Me neither."


End file.
